Conversations with You

I love your eggplant parmesan recipe because of the tomato sauce stains on the recipe card, the scribbled notes to make the eggplant slices slightly less than half an inch, and to use less oil next time since eggplant sops it up like a sponge.

And never put oregano in the tomato sauce, you once told me. Only basil.

But what if I’m in an oregano kind of mood? I asked.

Your mama has spoken, you said. One of your favorite lines.  

Today, Noel sits at the kitchen table and eats an orange while I cook.

“How was your day at work?” my partner Noel’s shimmery mother asks.

“The usual,” says Noel. “A bunch of paperwork for guardrail repairs came at the end of the day, half the callers complained about construction to widen roads, and the other half complained about roads that need to be widened.” Noel is an administrative assistant for the county department of transportation. They devote their days to making sure road signs and guardrails are in good condition, and taking calls from people who phone the help line.

“You’re so patient,” says their mother.

“I try,” says Noel. 

I slice the eggplant slightly less than half an inch, like we did when we made the recipe in your kitchen. Make sure the breadcrumbs are dry, you told me, and season them with garlic powder and pepper. Use two eggs in the egg wash, and beat them well. Dip the eggplant in flour and shake off the excess before you dip it in the egg, then the breadcrumbs. You have to press the breadcrumbs in a bit to make sure they stick. 

I often imagine you standing in the empty space on my right—I’m blind in my right eye and have been since I was a baby. It’s a good place for your memory to remind me of details you didn’t write on the recipe card. 

“What are you making?” their mother asks me. I glance over my shoulder at her hologram, smile and tell her. “I love your eggplant parmesan,” she says.

“I know,” I say. “Thank you.” I turn back to the breadcrumbs.

Start heating the oil, you remind me. Coat the bottom off the pan, but not too much.  

Eggplant parmesan is a cooking labor of love. Even when she started to become unstuck in time and tell us about this guy she was dating and how she hoped it would work out, Noel’s mother thought your eggplant was tops.

“Where did you get the recipe?” she asked while we ate. I told her again. And five minutes after that. “It’s very good,” she said.

“It is,” agreed Noel with their gentle, sad smile. Alzheimer's is a difficult disease, takes in drips and drabs. We knew what to expect and we didn’t know what to expect, but Noel recorded four years of conversations with their mom and uploaded endless pictures and videos.

Noel’s mother died last year. I don’t mind the hologram. She was a good mealtime conversationalist, and after-work chats make Noel happy. You’ve been gone for seven years and my memories of you have shifted, sharpened and softened. Moments I haven’t considered for a long time can spark into being when I look at your photograph, like when I was in high school and we got your car stuck on that deeply rutted country road on a sweltering August afternoon. We went into drive and reverse so many times that we worked ourselves more deeply into the sand. We didn’t have cell service to call for a tow, so you hatched a plan to dial 911 and pretend you were having an asthma attack so we could get police assistance.

Never thought the high school acting classes would come in handy, you say, quirking a smile. At least that officer seemed to buy it. Get paper towels ready to drain the eggplant.

“You’re always been  patient,” says Noel’s mother. “That was true even when you were a kid.”

Noel smiles. “Having a kid brother taught me a lot.”

“It sure did,” says Noel’s mother. They chuckle with the same four notes. 

Your eggplant parmesan recipe doesn’t taste the same when I make it as when you did, but a hologram couldn’t do much about that. Even if an algorithm calculated that you’d tell me not to put oregano in the tomato sauce, I’d resent it. 

Your eggplant parmesan tastes like you made it. You stand in the empty space on my right as I stir the tomato sauce. That’s as it should be. 

I remember the pressure of your arm resting around my shoulders as we glanced at your recipe card, the tomato sauce stains and pencil smudges. We’re not tidy cooks, and I’ve added a drip or two to the card. It’s our recipe now.

“Have a good dinner,” says Noel’s mother. “I love you.”

“I love you,” says Noel. 

They switch off the hologram, and their mother flickers away with a wave until their chat tomorrow.  

“We could have fried eggplant without cheese filling,” Noel says. “I wouldn’t mind.” 

“Mama wouldn’t approve,” I say. “Not enough protein.”

“You could always change the recipe a little, make it your own.” 

“It’s too dry without the ricotta,” we say, as I echo your voice or you echo mine.

“If you think so,” sighs Noel.   

Take the eggplant out of the pan before it gets too dark, you remind me, so I do.  

© 2025 Teresa Milbrodt

About the Author
Teresa Milbrodt has published three short story collections: Instances of Head-Switching, Bearded Women: Stories, and Work Opportunities. She has also published a novel, The Patron Saint of Unattractive People, a flash fiction collection, Larissa Takes Flight: Stories, and the monograph Sexy Like Us: Disability, Humor, and Sexuality. She loves cats, long walks with her MP3 player, independently owned coffee shops, peanut butter frozen yogurt, and texting hearts in rainbow colors. Read more of her work at teresamilbrodt.com.